Эллери Куин - The Devil To Pay

“Five? Do I hear five?”

“Forty-five hundred,” said the husky voice.

“Forty-five bid! Five, any one? You, sir? Mr. Ruhig? Forty-five once, forty-five twice, forty-five... Sold to the gentleman for forty-five hundred dollars.

Robbery! screamed Val silently. The Lowestoft had come down in the family. It was worth many, many thousands. Robber!

She craned with the others to see the husky-voiced thief. He was a spare young man with a close black beard covering his cheeks and chin, and he wore pince-nez glasses. Val after one malevolent look turned her eyes front. Robber!

Lot number two went up; Val heard the rattle of auctioneer’s patter and bids only dimly. Poor Rhys was so rigid. It was horrible having to be here... When the voices stopped it appeared that the husky one belonging to the bearded young man had again prevailed. The beast — buying poor mother’s b-bedroom suite!

Lot number three — history repeated itself. There were murmurs from the floor, and the auctioneer looked enchanted. Mr. Anatole Ruhig, who seemed to have a passion for antiques, looked definitely unenchanted. Black looks were hurled at the unconquerable bidder... Far in the rear, Mr. Walter Spaeth sat slumped in a chair, his right hand absently sketching on the back of an envelope the head of the bearded young man, who was sitting in the row before.

Lot number four. Number five. Six. Seven...

“It’s a frame-up,” said some one loudly. “He doesn’t give any one else a chance!”

“Quiet! Please! Ladies and gentlemen—”

“This isn’t an auction, it’s a monologue!”

Three people rose and went out in a dudgeon. Mr. Anatole Ruhig was by this time regarding the villain of the piece thoughtfully. The cadaverous one rose and left too. Val looked around in a panic; Rhys frowned at the greedy one.

Lot number eight, nine, number ten...

“I’m going!”

“So am I!”

The bearded young man coughed. “Common courtesy compels me to warn those who still remain that you may as well leave, too, unless you choose to remain as mere spectators.”

“I beg your pardon, sir—” began the auctioneer, who did not like the way things were going.

“I was about to add,” the bearded young man called out to the auctioneer, “that we can all save a lot of wear-and-tear on our vocal cords if we face the fact.”

“The fact?” said the auctioneer in bewilderment, rapping for order.

“The fact that I humbly intend,” continued the young man, getting to his feet and revealing considerable flannel-clad length, “to buy every lot in this auction, regardless of opposition bidding.”

And he sat down, smiling pleasantly at his neighbors.

“Who is he?” muttered Rhys Jardin.

“Don’t you know?” whispered Val. “I can’t understand—”

“This is highly irregular,” said the auctioneer, wiping his face.

“In fact,” said the young man hoarsely from his seat, “to save time I’m prepared to offer, Mr. Jardin a lump sum for the entire catalogue!”

The man behind Val jumped up and shouted: “It’s a conspiracy, that’s what it is!”

“I see the whole thing,” cried some one else.

“Sure! It’s a trick of Jardin’s!”

“He’s pulling a bluff!”

“Run a fake auction to make the public think he’s broke, and then plant this man to buy the whole thing back for him!”

“With his own money! My money!”

“Ladies and gentlemen! Please—” began Rhys, rising with a pale face.

“Sit down, you crook!” screeched a fat sweaty lady.

“No, no, he’s nothing of the sort,” protested the young man who had caused all the trouble. But by this time every one was shouting with indignation, and the young man’s voice was lost in the noise.

“You take that back!” screamed Val, diving for the fat lady.

“Officer! Clear the room!” roared the auctioneer.

When order was restored Val scrambled over two chairs getting to the bearded young man. “You worm! Now see what you’ve done!”

“I’ll admit,” he said ruefully, “I didn’t foresee a rising of the masses... Mr. Jardin, I think? Of course my proposal was seriously intended.”

“Breaking up auctions,” grumbled the auctioneer, scowling; for obviously with such a spirited bidder on the floor he would have realized a greater gross sum and consequently a handsomer commission.

“I decided on impulse, Mr. Jardin, and didn’t have time to make an offer in advance of the sale.”

“Suppose we talk it over,” said Jardin abruptly; and the three men put their heads together. Mr. Anatole Ruhig rose, took his hat and stick, and quietly went away.

The young man was a persuasive bargainer. In five minutes Jardin, completely mystified, had agreed to his offer, the auctioneer sat grumpily down to write out a bill of sale, and the young man dragged a large wallet out of his pocket and laid on the desk such a pile of new thousand-dollar bills that Val felt like yelling “Economic royalist!”

“Just to avoid any embarrassment about checks,” he said in his hoarse voice. “And now, if there’s nothing else, I have a group of vans waiting outside.”

And he went out and returned a moment later with a crew of muscular gentlemen in aprons who looked around, spat on their hands, listened to their employer’s whispered instructions, nodded, and went to work without conversation.

“Who is he, anyway?” demanded Pink, glaring at the beard.

“Profiteer,” snapped Valerie. That made her think of Walter, so she drifted over casually to where he still sat.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

Silence. Then Val said: “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”

“Yes,” said Walter.

What could you do with a creature like that? Val snatched the envelope on which he was sketching out of his hands, crumpled it, threw it at him, and flounced away.

Walter picked up the envelope and absently pocketed it.

“There you are,” said a bass voice, and Walter looked up.

“Hullo, Fitz. How are you?”

Fitzgerald sat down, wheezing. “Lousy. I thought California would stop these sinus headaches of mine, but I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if they aren’t worse.” Fitz had been in California over ten years and he complained about his sinusitis on the average of a dozen times each day. “Where’s the drawing?”

“Which one?”

“Today’s — yesterday’s — any day’s,” growled Fitz. “What do you think I’m paying you for — your good looks? With all this Ohippi dirt in the air, you go on a bat!”

“I was busy.”

“I haven’t had a cartoon for a week — I’ve had to fill in with old ones. Listen, Walter... Say what’s going on here?”

“As if you didn’t know, you long-eared jackass.”

“I heard outside somebody stampeded the works.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your nose, either.”

Fitz was a bulky Irishman with eyebrows like birds’ nests, imbedded in which were two very glossy and restless eggs. He was also unpredictable. He left Walter like a genie.

“Hullo, Rhys. Say, Rhys, I’m damned sorry about everything. Would have come over sooner, but I thought you’d rather not jaw about it.”

“Good of you.” Jardin looked around; the room was getting bare. “You’re in at the death, anyway,” he said grimly.

“Tough break.” Fitz shot sidewise glances at the bearded young man, who was watching his men calmly. “Who’s the buyer? Hullo, Valerie.”

Just then the young man turned his bearded face toward them, and Fitz’s eyebrows almost met his puffy cheeks.

“Hello, Mr. F-Fitzgerald,” said Val, watching a commode sail by. There was still a deep scratch in one leg where she had kicked it the time Mrs. Thomson had whacked her for printing “Thomson is a turkey” in yellow crayon on the drawer.